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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594333">Tu me donnes envie de te bourrer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster'>Zigster</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inception (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2020, AND!, Eames' Stupid Cupid Exchange, Gift Art, Gift Fic, I'm terrible at tagging citrus, If You Squint - Freeform, Kinda, M/M, PWP, Semi-Public Blow Job, Semi-Public Nudity, Semi-Public Sex, This should def be considered, Zigs drew stuff, also, and put it in the fic!, but like barely, mild dubious consent, more like a power play, slight d/s themes, this entire fic is semi-out-in-public</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:09:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,725</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(You make me want to fill you up)</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Arthur returns to Paris for work and spots a familiar face on the train platform. A foot chase, a run down, and copious exclamations of <i>'fuck!'</i> lead to one very climactic ending.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur/Eames (Inception)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tu me donnes envie de te bourrer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/gifts">deinvati</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Valentine's Day, Dei!!! I do hope you enjoy this silliness. I wrote you PWP! Aren't you proud? I am. I didn't think I had this in me but it somehow typed its way out of my fingers and the saucier it got the more I thought, 'hmmm, I'm pretty sure Dei will dig this,' so I didn't hold back. I hope you enjoy!<br/>-Zigs </p><p>Pardon any mistakes down yonder, this wasn't beta'd but well looked over by moi.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>
Steam hisses out from the train on the platform, blowing up the skirts of passersby and ruffling the hair on everyone’s heads with its warm mist. The sensation curls around Arthur’s throat like a lick of long fingers, stroking and coaxing. He shivers. He always did like trains. </p><p>There’s music coming from down the platform, the eerie sigh of a violin, swirling in the humid summertime air, crying out for attention. It’s actually impressive, the quality of the instrument’s sound and the musician who’s wielding it. Arthur digs into his trench pocket for a Euro or two, searching out the source of the music beyond the endless stream of tourists in front of him. </p><p>He spots the busker hunkered down against the tile wall not three yards ahead and Arthur swerves through the crowd to approach him, coins at the ready. He’s not ten feet away when the man on the dirty concrete floor looks up and locks eyes with Arthur. </p><p>Arthur freezes. </p><p>“Fuck,” he breathes.</p><p>The man’s eyes go from innocent and curious to determined and deadly faster than Arthur can pull a trigger. Before he can even reach for the safety of his gun, Arthur’s running, swift and soundless down the platform in the opposite direction, politeness be damned. </p><p>“<em>Arthah</em>!” he hears behind him. He pushes himself harder, runs faster. </p><p>“Arthur, wait!” </p><p>“Fuck, no!” </p><p>“Fucking wait!” </p><p>He doesn’t wait. He books it, sprinting towards the arched wrought-iron and glass windows of the station's entrance, lungs pumping along with the muscles of his thighs. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud as he makes his exit, and he throws an arm over his face, sourcing out the best direction he should head. There’s a crowd gathered in a park across the boulevard. He dashes towards them, the matching red of their umbrellas the tell-tale sign of a tourist mob. </p><p>Arthur forces himself to a halt before he reaches the safety of their cover and steps up genially next to a slight young woman regarding her map of Paris with a furrowed brow. </p><p>“<em>Pardon</em>,” he interrupts her and proceeds to ask in French if he could walk with her during the tour. She looks at him, with only the slightest comprehension in her eyes. </p><p>“You want to walk with me?” </p><p>“Oh, you’re British.” </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>“Great!” He bodily twirls her, putting a hand to her shoulder and sliding them further into the tight group of people. Above her head, he spies the entrance of the train station. He can see Eames scanning the crowds, violin case in hand. He’s seething, Arthur can easily see that even from across the way, and the sight of Eames like that, so alive and vibrant, standing on the pavement as if he could command the entire world with a flick of his wrist stirs an emotion buried deep within Arthur’s mind. He aches where he stands. </p><p>The girl notices. </p><p>“Is that your . . . friend?” </p><p>“I’m sorry?” </p><p>“The man. He’s shouting your name.” </p><p>“How do you know?” </p><p>She points to his suitcase. The pink transfer tag flapping on the handle in the wind reads out in blazing black letters <em>ARTHUR LEVY LHR-CDG</em>. Arthur wants to smack his face on the pavement. Of all the rookie fucking mistakes . . . </p><p>“Tough breakup?” The girl asks, looking sympathetic. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>She nods over her shoulder. “You know, with him?” </p><p>“Oh.” Arthur shakes his head. “Yes. You could say that.” </p><p>“That’s too bad.” She looks over at the man again, being entirely too obvious for Arthur’s liking. “He’s fit.” </p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>To Arthur’s horror, Eames spots them then, his eyes narrowing and his lips curling into a mischievous grin Arthur feels inconveniently weak over. </p><p>“Fuck.” </p><p>“Oooo, he’s spotted you—” the girl’s saying but Arthur is already running, dashing through the crowds of tourists and commuters alike, sprinting towards a side street in the hopes of losing Eames in the labyrinthian maze that is Paris. </p><p>He darts and ducks and dips in and out of so many back alleys and side streets, down a staircase, up a stone wall, over the stone wall, and back down yet another narrow cobbled street before he allows himself a break, breathing in deep gulps of air in a small carved alcove next to an oxidized copper fountain. There’s a dog lapping up the stray sprinkles of water at the base and Arthur focuses on the little dog and his pink tongue as his heart rate regulates itself.</p><p>The pounding in his chest has more to do with the shock of seeing Eames again than the 12-minute marathon he just forced his body to enact. He places a steady hand over his sternum as if to force his heart and lungs to act properly. He leans his head back against the marble, counts down from 10 in his mind, over and over. <em>It’ll be okay, It’ll be okay, It’ll be . . .</em> </p><p>“Arthur? What on earth are you doing?” </p><p>“Shit.” Arthur makes to evade Eames’ grasp but a cage of strength claps down hard on his shoulders before he can even move. Eames has his arms wrapped so tightly around Arthur from behind he can scarcely breathe. </p><p>Eames' lips brush against Arthur’s ear as he speaks. “You ran away from me, Arthur. Twice now.” </p><p>“I had a reason,” Arthur grunts, he shifts in Eames’ grip but Eames has nearly forty pounds of muscle on him and, unfortunately for Arthur, Eames knows how to use it. </p><p>“Are you sure you had a good enough reason?” </p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Arthur hisses, arching his back as Eames bites down on his earlobe, the fucking brut. The sting of sharp teeth has Arthur gasping in surprise and he can feel Eames’ smug smile forming against his skin. </p><p>“I disagree.” He practically purrs.  </p><p>“Bully for you.” Arthur squirms as Eames proceeds to wreak havoc on his neck with lips and teeth and tongue, doing as he pleases. It cuts Arthur to the bone that he wants this; that he’s missed this.</p><p>Eames’ one arm is slung tight across Arthur’s shoulders, the other is holding Arthur's wrists crossed and pinned at the base of his spine. He’s moved them into the shadow of the alcove, away from the prying eyes of any stray passersby, and pushes his hips forward against Arthur’s backside. It becomes immediately clear why Eames disagrees with Arthur and his reasoning for running away from him. </p><p>“Jesus, Eames. Desperate, much?” </p><p>“For the past five months? Yes.” </p><p>“Fuck, you haven’t—”</p><p>“No. Some little French twink in Tom Ford broke my fucking heart and I haven’t had much time to pull between the spiraling depression and drinking my body weight in gin, thank you very much.” Eames marks this revelatory statement with a rough press of his blatant erection into Arthur’s ass and Arthur groans despite himself, face heating from a potent mixture of anger, shock, humiliation, and lust. He presses his cheek against the cool marble in front of him, seeking something to ground him. </p><p>“Oh, fuck,” he says, feeling Eames’ hand curling tight and possessive around his hip. Arthur belatedly realizes that his own hands have been freed. He places them on the smooth stone in front of him. Eames hums his appreciation at the display and kicks Arthur’s stance wider as he moves in more fully behind him. </p><p> </p><p>“Have you missed it?” He’s whispering into Arthur’s ear, the scent of his breath telling of espresso and clove cigarettes and Arthur closes his eyes at the memory, the sensory overload of it all. He’s pinned and engulfed by this beast of a man and he knows at least three ways to extract himself from this situation in under 30 seconds, and yet he doesn’t fight, he doesn’t even move, he just inhales the dark scent of Eames’ breath skittering across his cheek, and god help him, rocks back into the warmth of his body. He wants him. </p><p>“Yesss,” Eames says, low and sweet. “Yes, you have, haven’t you, poppet?” </p><p>“Don’t call me that.” </p><p>“Don’t run away from me.” </p><p>“You know I had to.” </p><p>“Did you though?” </p><p>“Stop it, Eames. Yes. I did.” </p><p>Eames nips his ear again, then drags his tongue up the shell of it. Arthur shudders where he stands. He’s hard and he hates himself for it, but Eames was always too good. Almost too good to give up. Almost, but needs must in Arthur’s line of work. </p><p>“Yet, here you stand, at my mercy, practically begging for it.” Eames boldly palms Arthur over the front of his trousers, his thumb tracing him in broad, assured strokes. </p><p>Arthur pushes his ass further into Eames’ hips lining himself up <em>just-so</em> in order to tease. He knows how to play this game.</p><p>“What brought you back into my orbit, poppet?” Eames asks, as he twines his fingers through Arthur’s hair and pulls, exposing Arthur’s neck to more of Eames’ torturous tongue.</p><p>“Fabergé.” </p><p>Eames scoffs. “Boring. Too easy. I even have one in my flat.” He drags his palm down hard along Arthur’s front causing his breath to hitch. </p><p>“Do-you?” Arthur asks as his vision swims. It’s been too long since he’s felt this, had this—he’s too close already. </p><p>“<em>Oui</em>.” Eames is now trailing wet kisses along the line of Arthur’s collar in time with the rhythm of his hand and Arthur bites his lip to hold back the sounds threatening to escape his throat. Even through the fabric he can feel himself leaking, eager for Eames’ touch. He’s dizzy with it, he wants this so much. </p><p>“God, Eames.” He’s rocking back into him without thought now, merely seeking relief, aching for the feel of Eames’ cock. </p><p>“So, you did miss me.” </p><p>Arthur wants to balk at the smug tone of Eames’ voice, but he’s too far gone to care about his pride at this point. Eames can be an egotistical bastard all he wants as long as he keeps touching him. </p><p>As if following Arthur’s silent command, Eames flicks back Arthur’s belt, and pops the first three buttons of his fly in a practiced move and suddenly the heat of his bare hand is engulfing Arthur’s dripping cock, skin on skin. Arthur rolls his head back on Eames’ shoulder at the overwhelming sensation and cries out in French. </p><p>“That’s it. Say it, Arthur.”  </p><p>Arthur’s panting, so hungry for it, his knees are shaking. “Fuck—<em>Tu m'as manqué . . . Tu m'as manqué . . .  tellement</em>,”* he rambles, pressing his forehead into the hard stone in front of him, hiding his reddened face. </p><p>“In the Queen’s English, Arthur.” Eames says, pinching his nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. Arthur strains against him. </p><p>“I’ve missed you,” Arthur spits out. And then, more sincere, “<em>fuck</em>, I’ve missed you, Eames.” </p><p>Eames purrs, <em>I can tell</em>, sinful and sweet and satisfied in Arthur’s ear. He presses his cheek against Arthur’s, nuzzling. Arthur can feel the scratch of his stubble, the sweat of his overheated skin and he bucks hard into Eames’ hand. </p><p>“So eager, darling,” Eames whispers, laughing low and soft. Arthur wants to jab an elbow into his ribs for his mockery but before Arthur can even scoff, the heat of Eames’ hand is gone and Arthur’s being turned and shoved up onto the marble mantle within the alcove. Arthur blinks hard at the sight of Eames sinking to his knees before him. He must be dreaming. </p><p>“Oh, fuck.” </p><p>“More like suck, dear. Do keep up.” And Eames swallows him whole. </p><p>Arthur drops his head back against the stone because he is done for, utterly ruined by his man on his knees before him. Just bury him now, there’s no point in delaying. He shall die here in this side alley with a dog lapping up fountain water nearby as witness and no one else will have to ever know that Arthur Levy perished under the delicious torture of one Eames Charles. </p><p>“Your mouth,” Arthur whimpers, his hips thrusting uncontrolled until Eames braces his two strong hands over his hips, holding them still as he hums around the head of Arthur's cock. </p><p>Arthur dares a look down between his legs and sees Eames, thick thighs spread on the damp stone at his feet, broad shoulders working as his neck bobs with the movement of his head, eyes hooded and dark and laser-focused on Arthur as if he’s the pinpoint of his entire universe and it’s too much, it’s all too much. He rocks forward, unable to control himself any longer and he feels the moment his cock hits the back of Eames’ throat. He sees the electric shock flash in Eames’ eyes, the flare of his nostrils as he breathes harshly around him, and yet he doesn’t pull off, he doesn’t even fucking blink. Instead, Eames holds Arthur’s hips tight and moans. Arthur’s mouth drops open in a silent cry as the vibrations shake him to his very core. He’s teetering on the knife's edge. </p><p>They lock eyes, both holding their breath . . . </p><p>Eames breaks the moment and swallows, constricting his throat around Arthur’s swollen cock, and Arthur explodes. </p><p>“Fuck!” His body falls forward over Eames’ shoulders, boneless and electrified all at once. “Oh, fuck, Eames.” </p><p>He shivers as Eames drinks him down. Aftershocks course through him with every lap of Eames’ insistent tongue. His hands are running up and down Arthur’s thighs and the deep rumble of Eames’ laughter echoes in the alcove all around him. </p><p>“You went off like a rocket.” </p><p>“Fuck you.” Arthur pants, resting his forehead on Eames’ shoulder. He’s too bone-weary to move. </p><p>“I’d love that, though probably not here.” </p><p>Arthur looks up, clocking his surroundings for the first time in over ten minutes. They’re in public, in the middle of the afternoon. Arthur has his cock out in a back alleyway alcove like a damn street worker and suddenly he wants to rip Eames’ too-long hair out by the roots. </p><p>“Oh, fucking hell…” he says, shoving himself up and putting his trousers to rights in quick order. “This is… this was… what the fuck, Eames.” </p><p>Eames is too busy laughing at Arthur to give a fuck about public decency, the menace. </p><p>“I do hope this hurried manner you’re displaying means we’re heading back to mine for more?” </p><p>“Fuck you, Eames.” </p><p>“Yes, you already said that. I heartily concur.” </p><p>Arthur scoffs and steps out of the alcove to wet his hands in the fountain, attempting to tame his hair once more.  He lasts about ten seconds before he’s whipping around and speaking through clenched teeth. "Fine. Where do you live?” </p><p>“Not far. ’Bout ten minutes from here.” Eames tells him with a wolfish grin and Arthur squints, sizing him up. Eames is still visibly hard in his ridiculous pleated trousers and entirely unbothered by that fact. He even palms himself to adjust as Arthur gathers his suitcase, and Eames’ violin case, left at the edge of the alcove. </p><p>“Odd. My flat is ten minutes from here too.” </p><p>“Oh, I know.” </p><p>Arthur scoffs again. “Of course you do.” </p><p>Eames nods. “It’s your place I’m staying at.” </p><p>“What!?” </p><p>Eames shrugs, smiling. “You weren’t using it.” </p><p>“I’m the only one with a key!” </p><p>Another shrug. “Easy enough to replicate.” </p><p>“You god damn fucking <em>common</em> criminal.” </p><p>“Common? Ha! I’ll have to tell my mother that one. She’ll probably keel over dead at the mere insinuation.” </p><p>Eames is rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets, grinning like a spoilt brat begging for candy from a beloved grandparent. Arthur does not indulge him. He turns and starts walking. Eames falls into an easy gate beside him. </p><p>“Where we goin’, then?” </p><p>“To the flat.” </p><p>“Oh goodie, I’m starved.” </p><p>“Seriously, fuck you, Eames.” </p><p>“You keep saying that and I keep agreeing. No need to repeat yourself. Unless… is this some form of role play?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>Eames sighs. “Pity. I love a good role play.” </p><p>“Fine. How about you be the man who broke into my flat?” Arthur spits then raises an eyebrow at Eames before he can respond. “Oh wait… you already did that. Shucks.” </p><p>“Your imagination leaves something to be desired, pet, but never you mind, I’ve got plenty of creativity to go ‘round.” Eames rubs his hands together in mock thought. “Ooo! How about you get a couple of your silk—“ </p><p>“Hey, Eames?” Arthur asks, cutting him off. He turns towards him, earnest and sincere. </p><p>Eames pauses mid-stride and looks to Arthur. “Yes?” </p><p>“Fuck. You.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<em>Fin. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*French translation: <i>I missed you . . .  I missed you so much. </i></p></blockquote></div></div>
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